Racer
by BeyondCanon
Summary: [Prompt Challenge] Santana is a street racer. Brittany is the girlfriend of her biggest rival.
1. I

Several weeks ago I started a** prompt challenge** on my Tumblr. You drop me a prompt on my ask, I'll fill it if I'm seduced by it.

A few of those will be posted here. This is one of them.

* * *

**RACER**

She's in so much trouble.

"We shouldn't be doing this," she says, panting.

You press her against the door, kissing her neck slowly, biting and breathing in her ear.

"Britt, anyone can come in," she tries again, throwing her head back and moaning.

"You're my lucky charm, babe," you answer, kissing her deep and wet, taking over her mouth. "How am I supposed to beat my boyfriend without this?"

She grabs a handful of your hair, holding on to your shoulders for balance. Your hand goes up her dress, and you know she's already wet for it, ready to be fucked against a door just how she likes it.

"Babe, you're dripping." You moan in her ear, squeezing a little, teasing.

"Fuck," she gasps, biting her lip.

You smile, slowly rubbing your palm against her. "I wonder if you get this wet for anyone."

"Only you, Britt." She lets out a long moan when you finally enter her. "All for you."

You shouldn't, but you feel so possessive with her.

You know you have to do it slow and steady at first, your thumb grazing her clit with every thrust, holding her in place so she won't fall. She'll sigh and moan and sink her nails on your back, whimpering for more.

You give it to her, a flicker of your pulse and an extra finger, thrusting deep and stopping. "Beg for it."

She scratches your back, groaning in your ear. "Fuck me, Brittany. Own me. Fuck me."

You start over, this time faster and harder, stretching her, and she's so hot you can hear the wet sound she makes every time you enter her. She moans your name, over and over, until she can't take it anymore and a delicious, long wave of orgasm takes over her.

—-

You smell your fingers. So good.

You kiss your boyfriend long and wet, just how he likes it. He goes to his own car, unaware that your fingers are coated in someone else's cum.

Santana Lopez is the best kind of trouble. She's new, she's willing, and she's entranced by you.

You're used to getting what you want.

Like licking her cunt until she reaches orgasm number three, thighs clamping around you, a raspy groan.

You're still so bothered, so ready for round two.

You get into your own car.

You're obviously cheering for her, but no one needs to know.

This is going to be fun.

You've been Puck's girl for too long.

The three of you start revving your engines, and you love how your car purrs and answers to your commands.

It's a circular track, this time: you'll end up where you started.

The night is cold and quiet, ready for the taken.

Puck owns the first lead, his tires screeching, showing off as usual.

Santana's style was more opportunistic, strategic and manipulating. Puck's impulsiveness not always paid off.

Santana had been uninformed enough to flirt with you after her very first race. Didn't she know Puck has almost beaten a boy to death because he tried to buy you a drink?

Not that you're complaining, of course. When she found out the next day it was too late to turn back. She had already fucked Puck's girl.

You're too distracted.

Puck makes a mistake on a curve and Santana passes him. You smile, turning up your radio and blowing him a kiss when you're side by side.

He doesn't have what it takes to be mad at you when you win.

You can see Puck's impatience behind you, but you hold your ground.

The empty streets are only yours. You gain speed, and soon you're right behind Santana.

Santana doesn't leave you enough space to overtake, of course. She's too smart for that.

You notice Puck has suddenly disappeared.

The avenue is a long line now, and Santana can't keep you from catching up. She gives you that malicious smile, and you both speed up.

Puck suddenly shows up from a small street on your right. He honks at you both, probably too satisfied with his own cheating.

You look at Santana and you understand each other without words. The both of you accelerate as much as you can, so that your cars are by Puck's left and right.

Someone will have to give when you arrive at the last curve.

Your car groans. Santana and you have only a few inches of advantage on Puck.

It's enough for him to slow down; you manage to enter the curve just you and Santana, tires screeching with abruptness.

Santana obviously wins, that smug grin on her face because she knows how good she is, stuffing her jacket with the money, getting herself a drink to celebrate.

She obviously fucks you on the backseat of her car later that night, spreading your legs apart and touching you until you whimper and come on her lap.


	2. II

Surprise!

* * *

**II**

* * *

Everyone toast to you, beer spilling everywhere.

"Santana! Santana! Santana!" they chant your name, over and over and over again.

You laugh and down your entire glass at once, and then another. You're a fucking boss. You're the fucking boss of this fucking underground track because you're fucking Santana Lopez and you've got more game than every single man combined.

You've also just earned more money than you know what to do with.

"Let's get this party started!" Quinn voices rises and the lights dim on her command; a strong electronic beats starts to play, thundering in sync with your heart.

You're being lifted; several strong hands grab you and make you climb the table.

Your world is spinning, and you're the axis – you're powerful and on top of the world.

You give them a show, throwing your jacket away and displaying your impressive cleavage, malicious smile on your lips the entire time, hips rolling to the beat. You're sexy and you fucking know it.

You also know Brittany is at the back, watching.

Puck hangs there, frowning into his glass, hand on Brittany's waist.

Sore loser.

* * *

There's only one thing you need to know about the Dani girl: she likes winners.

And you, well, you're a winner.

She climbs on the table after you, and damn if she isn't so hot with those smoky eyes and strikes of blue on her hair, strong jawline and inviting lips. Fingers full of rings, she grabs your shirt and pulls you right against her, breasts rubbing together.

There's a tequila bottle in her hand that she pours into your eager mouth.

It burns the best kind of way.

You lick your lips and she stares, body moving to the beat with yours; you grab her waist and turn her around.

Fuck if you don't love a nice ass rubbing against you. Your hands don't waste a second in going to her hips, the tip of your fingers insinuating against her thigh.

Dani throws her head back, lips grazing your ear, grinding her ass against your crotch.

Are you drunk? Maybe you're drunk.

* * *

Your hands are on Dani's breasts.

She's got you pressed against your car, hidden in the shadows of the parking lot, mouth on your neck.

A winner deserves to collect her prize.

Then, suddenly, a pull. "No," you hear, and when you open your eyes you see Brittany.

She pulls Dani by the collar, brisk and forceful; Dani stumbles back several steps.

Dani's lips are sore and her hair is a wild, sexy mess. "The fuck!"

Your eyes widen, chest rising and falling in quick breaths.

"She's mine," Brittany growls, standing between you and Dani and pushing Dani's shoulders. "You don't touch what's fucking mine."

Brittany's got her hair in an up do, all pompadour and shit, and tight high ponytail. Her black leather jacket and tight black top, knee-length boots shine under the moonlight.

You're probably hypnotized now.

Dani tries to fight back, but you don't just mess with a girl like Brittany. She just avoids the two first punches and manages somehow to twist Dani's arm and press her against the car.

You can't hear what she tells Dani. You'd give a kidney to know it; the pained look on Dani's face, Brittany shoving her and watching her walk away.

You release the breath you've been holding.

Brittany turns to you, face serious as death. "You."

* * *

You're half terrified.

"What do you think you're doing?" She presses against you, hips right against yours. "Dani? Really?"

You hold on to her shoulders. "She's not the one with a boyfriend."

"Not anymore," she growls, her face in your neck, tugging and pulling your hair. "I just want you." Her lips graze your earlobe. You moan. "You smell like her."

God, you can _feel_ the wetness pooling between your legs.

"We'll have to fix that." She licks a long line from the curve of your neck to right below your ear, bringing shivers all over your body. "You're delicious," she whispers in her bedroom voice. "You just need to remember who you belong to."

You moan again, clutching her shoulders. "Make me."

She kisses you hard, all teeth and bite, hand on the back of your neck. You surrender promptly, muffling a groan when she bites your already sore lower lip.

"Make me yours," you say between kisses, hands unbuckling her belt and tugging her shirt off, whining in pleasure when your palm finds her strong abs. "Mark me."

She stops you, gripping your hand with too much force. "You're already mine."

* * *

To her credit, she does take off her shirt for you to lie on before she throws you on the hood of your car.

"Jesus fuck," you whimper when she finishes taking your pants off and looks at you like you're her next meal. "Get your mouth on me or I'll just—"

You never really find out or what, because her tongue is already parting your folds and tasting your wetness.

You grab the back of her hair, wanting faster, more, but she just holds your wrist and takes her fucking time with long exploratory licks.

You're panting, and your thighs are already trembling. Her tongue stiffens and she begins the real fucking, moaning deep against you, wetness coating your thighs and her face.

You're definitely going to explode, her name dropping from your lips over and over again, hips moving against her face and legs on her shoulders.

You bite your own hand when her thumb _finally_ finds your clit. She runs tight circles one after the other, tongue still very much inside you.

Your entire body shakes and your mind goes blissfully blank, a long moan and the sound of her name.

* * *

She makes sure to get you back to the party.

The music is still loud and the racers are intoxicated enough to scream both of your names as you enter. You give them a wet, dirty kiss for the show. They love it.

She holds your waist and kisses your neck when you're by the counter ordering a drink.

She makes eyes at Dani, pressing her crotch against your ass, paying for your entire tab like she's some fucking millionaire.

"My girlfriend deserves it," she says in your ear, sexy raspy bedroom voice.

You're still throbbing, still riding your post-orgasm bliss, but you look back to her anyway, stealing a kiss. "Yours."


	3. III

Okay, maybe I lied. One more! It's the last, though. Enjoy.

Things get real. Small tw for violence and disgusting sexism.

* * *

**III**

* * *

You're just there, doing your thing, talking trash with Quinn at the old abandoned track.

You entire body is humming. Brittany is something else, having her way with you until both of you collapsed with exhaustion.

A cloud moves and the sun goes straight to your face. Fuck.

God, your head _hurts_.

Quinn laughs at your face, nudging you with the tip of her boots when you groan. You swat her away, call her a bitch.

You consider taking Brittany to Mexico for a little while; you've got the money for a whole month, maybe two, enough for things to cool down.

You light up a cigarette and throw Quinn your lighter so she can do the same.

You've barely taken your second drag when you hear it.

Two cars, tires screeching.

"If I were you I'd leave right now," you say to Quinn, low and focused. "It's not going to be pretty."

You hadn't thought it'd come so soon.

At least you've got the upper hand, you're able to see it coming. The two knives you take from each of your heavy combat boots shine under the afternoon sun.

You were already expecting this.

Quinn's eyes go from Puck's figure leaving his car to yours. "You've got me," she answers before she springs to life, climbing up a few benches and grabbing a loose chain. "Ladies gotta stick together."

You smile when she wraps the heavy, dusty chain around her hands and makes a clinking sound.

_That's_ friendship, bitch.

* * *

You told her to stay cool. You _told_ her not to leave the apartment, not to draw attention to herself for a few days.

Why does Santana have to be so damn _stubborn_?

You groan, hitting the steering wheel with the heel of your hand.

You can't guarantee her safety if you're not by her side, and you have things to do. You can't be her bodyguard; there are meetings and allies and work to be done.

But Santana can't sit still for a second, can she? Of course not.

Faster, faster, _faster_.

* * *

They arrive slamming long bars against the benches and the fence, the loud sound of metal against metal ringing in your ears.

"Show no fear," Quinn says, impassible as a fucking monk, smoking her cigarette.

"Santana Lopez," Puck's voice mocks her as he and three of his men make their way up, "best racer in the state."

"Puck," you nod, scanning your surroundings for exits and shifting closer to Quinn. "Former best racer in the state."

Quinn smiles.

His next swing against the handrail is particularly vicious.

"You've got balls, Lopez, I'll give you that." The left corner of his mouth lifts in an artificial smile.

They're close, too close for your taste. "But you think you can have everything, don't you?"

You're standing on the bench, cigarette between your lips and knives in your hands. You don't step back.

"I never took anything, Puck." Your knees bent, you assume your alert position. "It was given freely to me."

"Let me tell you something." He turns serious. "Brittany is _mine_."

You know what he does to anyone who dares to look Brittany's way. Sweat pools on your back, cold and sticky.

Quinn raises one eyebrow. "See, Puck," she rattles her chains and takes a step forward, speaking slow. "Women are not _actually_ property."

You will never love someone as much as you love Quinn right now.

Puck makes the first move, and Quinn's right arm moves in a graceful circle; the chain closes around the bar and takes it to the ground when Quinn twists her arm.

* * *

She's in so much trouble.

You walk in big strides, heart drumming in your chest. All you can hear is the sound of metal against metal, grunts and groans.

Azimio's big body lies on the ground, unconscious but breathing.

Thank _God_.

Quinn has a huge metal chain around Karofsky's neck and she's actually _on his back_, huffing like a madwoman; all he can do is hold the chain with both hands to avoid strangulation.

Santana, Jake and Puck are circling each other, waiting for the next move.

You shoot three times in quick succession: to the air, to the gate by your right, and purposefully close to Puck's feet.

It gets their attention.

"This madness stops right now." Your voice is firm and authoritative.

Puck groans, his shirt drenched in blood under his bomber jacket. "It's a matter of honor, Britt. Stay out of this."

Quinn rolls her eyes, still very much on Karofsky's shoulders.

"Everyone drops their weapons," you say, the aim of your gun alternating between them.

Quinn and Jake make the most irritated pout you have ever seen, but follow your instructions. Children.

Quinn leaps to the ground. Karofsky gasps, falling to his knees in relief as he breathes like an asthmatic whale.

You aim for Puck. "You too."

"I'm not dropping anything until she does," he growls, and it'd probably be more impressive if he wasn't being a baby.

You clear your throat and take a few steps in his direction. "Puck, listen." Your tone is cold and flat. "If you as much as _touch_ Santana again I _will _kill you."

He frowns, staring dumbly.

You pull the safety off. "I told you to drop it."

The metal bar falls to the ground with a loud thud.

You pull the safety on and stack your gun in the back of your pants.

"C'mon." You gesture. Puck doesn't look in your eyes. His jaw set and a slight limp, he and Jake take Azimio and Karofsky to the hospital.

You drag Quinn and Santana to your car, and make sure there are no broken bones or fractured ribs.

This could have been worse, you think, sighing in relief and kissing Santana's eyelids.

* * *

Brittany hovers above, kissing you slow and languid.

Your body is sore and you're exhausted, but you need this.

She kisses your neck, drawing patterns with her tongue, sucking and biting gently; your hand finds her hair, grabbing and pulling.

Nothing but her mouth touches you.

You bite your lip when she arrives at your collarbone, to the valley of your breasts, teasing and not delivering.

"Please," you whine, tugging her hair, until her mouth is on your breasts.

She lets out a little sigh of pleasure, and you moan.

You're so _sensitive_.

She takes her time, spending long minutes licking and sucking, one hand teasing your other nipple. Your mouth parts open and you sink your nails into her shoulders.

You want her closer.

"I told you not to leave your apartment," she says, pinching your nipple and rolling it between your fingers.

Your back arches, pain mixing with pleasure. "I'm sorry, Britt, I—"

"Maybe I shouldn't let you come." She does the same to the other.

Fuck. You're throbbing for her.

"Please, Brittany, I'm so wet," you breathe out, spreading your legs further, offering yourself to her.

She runs the palm of her hand over your body, careful not to hurt you any further. "Let's see." She runs two fingers through your folds, up and down, gathering your wetness.


End file.
